Prayer of the Tired Dust

(Companion to The Epistle of Fayetteville II: Scattered, Gathered, Formed)

Some mornings, prayer begins as refusal — and ends as resurrection

I woke up tired and sore,

not wanting to move or go,

just to stay in bed a little

and let the dream linger

a smidgen longer

before today’s brutality.

I didn’t want to give,

or even show up as me.

Just to sit like a puddle,

a congealed mass

of sacred solitude and sorrow,

my silver mop flaring

beneath the fan’s soft breeze.

It was then You whispered,

just before the fan’s tickling

tousled the stranded hair

that brushed my cheek,

“Prayer is action too, my Dearest,

Beloved Daughter called Dust.”

I froze when I felt it within,

the Truth piercing me

as lies never could.

I got up then, Beloved.

Forgive my lack,

my failure in immediacy,

yet You still rewarded me

by naming me Beloved back.

How could You?

You shattered me again

in the holiest way imaginable,

showing that my grief, my sorrow,

have a home in You.

Thank You, Holy Father.

You are enough for this Dust.

Amen and amen.

Dust

🌿 From the Epistles of Fayetteville

If this prayer moved you, read the companion letter here:

➡️ The Epistle of Fayetteville II: Scattered, Gathered, Formed